Goodbye again — Part I of II

I have had many goodbyes. Goodbyes to my family, friends, pets and places where I belonged once. My goodbyes have evoked both sadness and joy. Some resulted in temporary changes and some permanent. I came to terms with the changes, loneliness, and the adventures my goodbyes invoked.

Among them, I said goodbye more than anyone else to my parents. That itself was a sweet blessing.

My first goodbye was when I was four years old when my parents moved homes. From the home where I was born, we moved to another of our parents’ houses. It was a big move for a little kid. My cousins lived next door in my old home. With no fence between the two properties, my cousins, a girl and three boys virtually lived in our home. Saying goodbye was hard; I missed them when I moved. Soon, I found new playmates in the new neighbourhood. A few months later, I got a little sister, making me happy again.

The next goodbye was the passing away of my only grandpa, two years later. There was no goodbye between him and me, his only grandson then. It was a sad goodbye, an event that turned a small boy’s life upside down. Something I could not make sense of.

My aunty, Catherine, my mother’s younger sister walked out of our home two years after grandpa’s passing. She simply disappeared. There was no clue where Catherine was. I was confused, the worst part was not the chaos at home but the loss of my dearest auntie. It was too difficult to bear. Her sudden disappearance without a goodbye turned my world upside down. I missed her terribly and felt deeply sad. Sometimes I felt that it was my fault that Catherine left. It was a traumatic period for an eight-year-old. It took another seven years for me to be reunited with her.

Just as I was on the cusp of turning twelve, I wanted to become a Christian brother when I grew up. My God-fearing parents reluctantly agreed to my wish. Everyone at home was caught up on my impending departure. I felt a sense of importance, in between bouts of sadness about leaving my family. My family accompanied me to the boarding house, my father carrying my Ford suitcase, packed with clothes and schoolbooks. As my family bade me farewell, I felt sad. Everybody hugged and kissed me with brave faces. It was with mixed feelings that I said goodbye to my parents and grandmother. Goodbyes to my little sister and brother were the hardest. I later learnt that I broke my parents’ hearts with by leaving home. My father on his return home had cried inconsolably in front of his relatives.

That year in the boarding school was one of my happiest. Bro. Ignatius was the loving guardian and carer. He made sure that I never felt homesick. Three months of school and one month of school holidays three times a year became a routine. From a young age, saying goodbyes, again and again, became a ritual. Bidding my parents and siblings goodbye was tough. But knowing that my kind caretaker, Bro. Ignatius and my mates in the boarding were awaiting my return was a consolation.

During my last school holidays that year, just before Christmas, I got a postcard from Bro. Ignatius, with Christmas wishes. There was a coded sentence about a goodbye. At twelve years, I could not decipher its meaning. At the end of the holidays, when I returned to the boarding school, there was no sign of Bro. Ignatius. I was shocked to hear the news about Bro. Ignatius’s sudden departure was a result of a transfer order. It was a big blow to a twelve-year-old. It was my third abrupt goodbye.

The next year was a defining point in my education. As the year was coming to a close, it was the end of the road at the junior school. I would be in a Colombo based high school and a new boarding house in the new term. I had formed great relationships with many of the boys in my junior school, from the time we were five, starting from our toddler days. I was excited about the change yet sad to leave friends and familiar surroundings. It was with mixed emotions that I said goodbye to my school friends at the end of that school term.

I started in the new boarding and the school, in Colombo, adjusting well. Three months of school and one month of school holidays three times a year continued to be the routine. Many, many goodbyes, again and again to my family, especially to my sister and kid brother. This went on for another two years.

Fifteen years now, I was not happy at the boarding. I wanted to live free, as a normal boy, away from institutional control. My parents supported my decision to leave. On my last day, I did not say goodbye to my friends in the boarding school. For me, it was a happy goodbye because it was the beginning of a new leaf in my life. I left for home with my father, him carrying my suitcase. Back at home, I was confident and lived again a free and liberated life as a budding teenager. I attended the same school and kept in touch with the same set of friends.

Then there was Rover our family dog. I grew up with him. Rover was our ultimate dog. The fearless Rover got into a dogfight with a rabies-infected street dog. After the fight, Rover returned home bruised. This meant that Rover was going to be infected with rabies in a few days. It was a difficult moment for everyone at home. Painful that it was, we had to ensure there was no risk to our neighbours and us from Rover. The only choice we had was to put him down immediately without delay. It was a serious family crisis. A distressing one for a boy. The painful task of putting Rover down was taken over by our next-door courageous neighbour, uncle William. Breaking my heart, William took Rover away from the anxious looks. It was too traumatic for me, the loss and the violent end of my favourite dog. William buried Rover at the back of our property. I could not forget his gravesite, visiting it after I came back from school for months. The way Rover had to go distressed me horribly. I often thought of the pain he had endured during his last minutes. I felt that I was not brave enough to secure him from the crazy rabid dog. I mourned for him. There was no goodbye to Rover.

Four years later, Kadayamma, my beloved grandmother died in our family home as I turned nineteen. In her last days, she was ailing and spent most of her time on her bed. When she died, my father, mother and my neighbour, William were by her bedside helping her to breathe her last. I wanted to be near Kadayamma in her last moments. My father asked me to stay outside the room, probably not wanting me to be traumatised. I waited outside, near the door, confused, and listening to Kadayamma as she breathed her last. Now I wish that I was with her in her last moments. On the next day, at the cemetery, when her coffin was lowered to the ground, it hit me, the extent of my loss. I could not hold my tears anymore and I cried. It was a very sad goodbye.

Two years later, I got an unexpected opportunity to go to Dubai to work. I would have certainly surprised my mother and father with my plans. My mother, on the night before my flight, came to my bedside and poured her anguish about letting go of her eldest son, in her sorrow in tears. She touched my head recalling the events of my childhood and how she would miss her eldest child. My father did not say much, was instead brave only offering encouragement.

I left the next day leaving my courageous mother and father and my sister, seventeen years and my kid brother, now thirteen years. My memories at the airport are hazy because all I was thinking of was my new adventure. But I do remember how my father hugged and kissed me on my cheeks and forehead, let me go. Now with all that wisdom age has brought me, I know he let me step into the world for the first time, with a mixture of pride and loss.

I did not know that it was also my final goodbye to my home country. Although I returned to Sri Lanka many times to visit my family as a youngster, I never returned to Sri Lanka to live. It turned out to be a permanent separation from my first homeland, the final goodbye to the soil where I was raised.

Part II of this series: Goodbye Again — Final Part

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